


Constellations

by evxdevo



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evxdevo/pseuds/evxdevo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn’t enough happy punky monkey, so: set after everything “clone-y” settles down, Cosima and Kira stargaze, later joined by Sarah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: mention of rape (bc Greek myths), mentions of sickness/death

The bitter cold stings at Cosima’s nose and nips at Kira’s ears as they lie together on a blanket in the grass, gazing up at the stars. Cosima wonders, briefly, if January is really the best time to spend hours outside, exposing themselves to the elements of the frigid winter. But, wrapped in soft jackets and piles of blankets, heating pads tucked into her boots and under her back, with Kira curled beside her, she can’t imagine a better time.

With one hand, Cosima holds a pair of binoculars to her eyes. The other remains tucked into the warm comfort of the blankets - no reason to sacrifice both limbs.

“How far away are they?” Kira murmurs, as her eyes jump from one star to the next, an enchanted game of connect-the-dots.

“Oh, some of them are very close,” Cosima says, “Only a few light years away.”

“Light years?”

“Ten trillion kilometers.”

“That’s not very close.”

“No,” Cosima concedes, her voice thoughtful, “I guess not. It seems close, because some of them - some of the stars - they’re millions of light years away. And that’s just the ones we can see, no binoculars, no telescopes, just our own two eyes.” She demonstrates by lowering the binoculars away from her face, resting them instead on her stomach.

“How can we see them?” Kira says, “If they’re so far away?”

Cosima hums softly before replying. “The light from the stars,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “travels in waves.” She extracts her non-binocular arm from the blankets and uses it to mimic the waves travelling through the air as Kira looks on in fascination. “The light we’re seeing now is hundreds of years old, thousands, millions - and it’s just now getting to Earth.”

Kira breathes out, slowly, barely audible. Her breath clouds on the cold air.

Cosima continues, “We’re looking back in time. These stars could have supernovaed by now, and we’re only seeing a memory of what they were.”

“A shadow.” Kira’s small voice encompasses a world of understanding. She lifts one arm and sweeps it across the sky, as if trying to touch the stars she knows to be inconceivably distant.

They don’t speak again for a long time. Cosima spins a ring on one of her fingers, eyes fixed on the glowing crescent moon. Kira traces patterns into the sky, connecting the stars, silent in concentration. The only sound is that of the slight breeze which rustles through the leaves of a tree several yards away.

Kira breaks the silence when she says, “Look, an angel.” When Cosima turns to her, she’s tracing and retracing a path with her finger. “Can you see it?”

Cosima shakes her head. “No, show me.” She moves closer to Kira so that their heads touch.

Kira squints one eye as she points from star to star. “That one, and it goes to that bright one, there. See? That’s her wing.”

“Yeah,” Cosima says, as she imagines lines connecting the pinpricks of light, “That’s an angel wing, alright.”

Kira drops her arm to the side, satisfied. But she continues to gaze at her angel.

After a moment, Cosima shifts, and brings the binoculars to her eyes again. She blinks as she gets used to them and then surveys the sky until -

“There.” She extends her arm, a replica of Kira’s own movements, and points at a particularly bright star. Without taking her eyes off it, she passes the binoculars to Kira. “Look where I’m pointing.”

Kira wraps her nearly-numb fingers around the binoculars and holds them tightly as she follows the direction of Cosima’s gesture. She looks around, unsure what she is supposed to be seeing. Cosima’s own hand covers Kira’s, warming them, and she guides the binoculars to focus on the star.

“That’s Capella,” Cosima says, when she’s certain Kira has identified it. “Now look to the left - there should be a dimmer one - and down, and then down and to the right a little bit. That’s another brighter one.” She waits for Kira to nod in affirmation after each direction.

“What is it?” Kira asks, when they have traced the whole of the constellation.

“Auriga,” Cosima says, “The Charioteer. It’s supposed to show a shepherd in his chariot, holding a goat.”

“I don’t see a goat.”

“No,” Cosima smiles, “No, it’s hard to see where they got all the details from.”

“Who?”

“The Greeks. They told stories about the the constellations, about how they all got there. Like this one, the chariot, might come from the story of Erichthonius. He was the son of Hephaestus - god of craftsmen - and Gaia - that’s Mother Earth,” Cosima recounts, “But he couldn’t walk. So he built himself a chariot, so he could move around. And the great god Zeus admired that, so he placed Erichthonius and his chariot in the night sky for everyone to see.”

“Did that really happen?” Skepticism permeates Kira’s question.

Cosima laughs and shakes her head. “It’s just a story.”

“Tell another,” Kira says, and then adds, “Please.” She lowers the binoculars and watches Cosima as she speaks again.

“Well, Auriga could also come from Myrtilus. He was the charioteer for King Oenomaus, but he helped a man named Pelops beat the king in a race by cheating. Afterwards, though, Myrtilus wanted a reward - wanted a night with Pelops’ bride - and so Pelops killed him.”

Kira takes a moment to process the story. When she speaks, the words come slowly. “Neither of them is the good guy,” she observes.

“No,” Cosima sighs, “That happens sometimes.” Silence falls over them again.

Kira shifts under her blankets, readjusting to look through the binoculars. Cosima finds herself staring into a patch of darkness, remembering Aldous Leekie’s Neolution lecture, the patents encoded into Ethan Duncan’s experimental sequences, the night Rachel Duncan smashed Kira’s bone marrow - back then, the only chance she had at survival. Sometimes, none of us are the good guy.

“You cold, Kira?”

“A little.”

Cosima shifts closer, and Kira responds by nestling against her side.

“Did you ever wish on a shooting star?” Kira asks. Cosima smiles.

“Yeah,” she says, “I did, when I was your age.”

“Don’t tell me your wishes,” Kira says, suddenly serious, “or else they won’t come true.”

“Oh,” Cosima breathes, “They came true already, Kira. The important ones did.” She thinks back to sitting on her windowsill, six, seven, eight years old, watching the stars glimmer. Believing she saw a shooting star even when there wasn’t one there, because she so badly wanted to wish.

Please let me get a new bike for my birthday.

Please let Daddy get home from work early tomorrow so he can spend time with me.

And, years later, Please make the kids at school stop teasing me.

Please move the deadline for the project that I didn’t finish - oh, god, what if I don’t finish it? What if I fail?

And, years after that, Please let me find someone to fall in love with who will fall in love with me, too.

She stopped wishing when she got to high school. She wished only one more time, not long ago, gazing up from the window of her apartment in Minneapolis.

Please don’t let me die.

Even now, months later, she thanks the stars. She’s a scientist, but she finds that she believes in a certain kind of fate.

“Shooting stars,” she tells Kira, “aren’t actually stars at all. They’re meteors - bits of rock that… burn up as they pass through Earth’s atmosphere. It makes them look like they’re on fire.”

Kira turns to her. “But they’re still magic, right?”

“Yeah,” Cosima says earnestly, “Still magic.”

They fall silent again. Cosima takes the time to revel in the magic. Sure, there were days her dad didn’t come home until past midnight and left for the lab again before dawn. There was a long night spent crying over an unfinished poster board presentation, running her hands anxiously through her hair. But there was also a new bike, and a day when she looked the bullies in the eye and said, “Leave me alone,” and soon there after, a new group of friends. There’s the way Sarah Manning traces Cosima’s tattoos with her fingers, the way she whispers “I need you, Cos,” and the way it makes Cosima’s heart flutter. And there’s the gift of her own steady breathing as she lies beside Kira, the most a incredible child Cosima has ever know, a miracle in and of herself.

“What are those ones, there?” Kira asks, drawing a line between two of the dimmer stars. Cosima’s eyes flit from star to star, identifying the constellation.

“Those are part of Perseus,” she says, “He’s famous for slaying Medusa, the Gorgon.”

“She turned people into stone,” Kira pipes up, “just by them looking at her.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Cosima confirms, “and her hair-”

“-was made of snakes,” Kira finishes.

“Uh-huh. Perseus chopped off her head and kept it. He used it to turn his enemies to stone.”

“He was a hero,” Kira says.

“He’s certainly considered one. He rescued the princess Andromeda from the sea monster Cetus,” Cosima recalls, “after her parents left her chained to a rock.”

Kira stills. “What kind of parents would do that?” she asks, somberly, as if genuinely disheartened by the fate of poor Andromeda.

“Selfish ones,” Cosima replies, “The ones who don’t care enough to take responsibility for their own actions. Andromeda’s mother - Queen Cassiopeia - she’s right up there.” Cosima guides the binoculars upwards and to the right. “It’s barely visible, but can you see the five stars in that “W” shape?” Kira moves her head around and then nods. “That’s Cassiopeia,” Cosima explains, “Her husband, Cepheus, is up there, too. And the monster, Cetus. But we can’t see them right now.”

“Was she very evil?”

Cosima considers the question before responding. “She was vain. She claimed that her beauty outshone that of the sea nymphs. They sought revenge, and got Poseidon to create a sea monster to terrorize the coast of Cassiopeia’s country.”

“Just because she thought she was beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Cosima said, “because the nymphs felt threatened by her. But she was truly evil for what she did next. She sacrificed her daughter, Andromeda, to placate the monster for all eternity.”

Kira surveys the constellation for a time before another question dawns on her. “Why does she get to be in the stars, then? If she was evil?”

“It’s her punishment,” Cosima says. “Forced to spin around and around the north pole forever, hanging upside down half the time. She’s supposed to seem mournful when you look at her, like she’s sorry for what she did to Andromeda.”

“Is she?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think she is.” Cosima surprises herself with the ease of her response. “But that’s not the only story of those stars. Every star has more than one story.” She waits for Kira to respond, but the child simply peers at her with rapt attention. She clears her throat and continues.

“In the Arabic stories, the stars of Cassiopeia are a hand painted with henna - intricate designs made with dye. It’s a form of body art in North Africa, in India.” Cosima holds one hand in front of her, tilting it in the moonlight, as if the complex patterns might simply appear and begin to wind their way across her skin. “The designs,” she tells Kira, “twist and weave and repeat. Hearts, vines, flowers for fertility. They’re incredibly detailed. The…” Her voice trails off. She cannot keep the wonder out of her tone as she says, “The complexities, the repetition - it reminds me of the patterns in the stars. Of the galaxies in the universe. So… detailed. Natural, and haphazard, but so precise.”

Kira looks from Cosima’s hand up to the stars and then back to trace the features of Cosima’s face in the dark. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, they are locked together in their admiration. From the sequence of the stars and planets right down to the fog of their breath between them, they share a sort of wonderstruck warmth.

It’s Cosima who turns away first, returning her attention to the sky. “The star that’s the middle point of the ‘W,’” she says, “Right there - it’s called Gamma Cassiopeiae.”

“Gamma- Gamma Cassi-” Kira tries to repeat the name, but stumbles, and Cosima laughs. She waves her hand to dismiss Kira’s efforts, and then explains, “The Chinese saw it as a whip. It’s unpredictable… erratic. It dims and flares over decades.”

“Like a heartbeat,” Kira says.

Cosima imagines the distant star, a slow-beating heart, pulsing life throughout the universe. “Yeah,” she says, “Just like that.”

—-

Neither of them knows how much time has passed when they hear footsteps and turn to see Sarah approaching them.

“Mommy,” Kira says, her voice heavy with sleepiness.

“Hiya, monkey,” Sarah smiles, settling down to lie on the other side of her daughter. Enveloped by her mothers on either side, Kira’s eyes start to close. Sarah and Cosima listen as her breathing slows, as her small body relaxes into them, as she drifts into the ease of sleep. Sarah and Cosima lie together, not speaking, but finding comfort in the other’s presence.

After several long minutes, Cosima says, “Can you see the constellations, Sarah?”

Sarah shakes her head. “No. I just see… stars.”

Cosima takes one of Sarah’s hands in her own and lifts it to the sky, guiding it just as she did with Kira’s.

“There,” she says, “See that dim one? It makes a triangle with those other two.”

“Yeah,” Sarah says, “Yeah, I see.” Cosima guides her to two more stars - the tail of the constellation.

“That’s Pisces,” she says, “The Fish. You and me, that’s our Zodiac.” Sarah hums and laces her fingers with Cosima’s. “The fish are Eros and Aphrodite, both gods of love.” Sarah brings Cosima’s hand down to her lips and kisses it softly.

“Show me another one,” she says.

“All the Zodiacs line up with the ecliptic - the line the Sun appears to take across the sky. Those ones” - she points between four stars - “are part of Gemini. The Twins.”

“Yeah?”

“That bright one, that’s Pollux. And the one next to it…” she pauses, “that’s Castor.” At the name, Sarah pulls Cosima’s hand from its spot resting on her lips. She turns on her side, propping herself on her elbow, and watches Cosima as she talks.

“Pollux and Castor were sons of Leda,” she says, all too aware of the quiver in her voice as she repeats the familiar names, “but of different fathers. Castor was mortal, but Pollux was the son of Zeus - Zeus turned into a swan and… raped Leda - and so Pollux was immortal.” Sarah doesn’t respond, only watches the shadows shift on Cosima’s face as she speaks.

“They were brothers,” Cosima continues, “They were heros together. And then the day came that Castor died, and Pollux couldn’t stand to live without his brother. He begged to be mortal, too.” Sarah sighs, and Cosima knows they are thinking the same thing.

I can’t do this without you, Cosima.

“Instead, Zeus made them both immortal and placed them in the night sky.” Cosima turns to meet Sarah’s gaze.

“It’s a nice story, Cos. But the name Castor makes me want to cry.”

“Yeah.”

Sarah leans down and Cosima leans up so that their lips meet and they kiss, balancing above Kira, still asleep. Cosima weaves one hand into Sarah’s hair. When they break apart, she leaves it there, holding Sarah’s head inches from her own, so that they still taste each other on the air.

“I love you, Sarah.”

“I love you, too.”

“You and me, we survived.”

“Yeah. Yeah we did.”

They kiss again, gentle and slow. When they pull away and relax once more onto the blanket, their hands wind together. Together, they feel the chill of the air contrasted against the warmth of their bodies. Together, they watch the stars glimmer and pulse, watch them fuse together and cleave apart, in silhouettes and fairytales and unearthly alchemy.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I did research but I’m not an astronomer and I know some of that is inaccurate in this - sorry!


End file.
